


Warm On the Coldest Of Nights

by mistynights



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (it's actually 4+1 but you know), 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Through The Ages, Kinda, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistynights/pseuds/mistynights
Summary: Four times Crowley and Aziraphale have furtive meetings during the Halloween season, plus one time it isn't so furtive.





	Warm On the Coldest Of Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mmcgui12_gmu_goodomens (mmcgui12_gmu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmcgui12_gmu/gifts).

> I had lots of fun working with this prompt and I really hope you enjoy this story. I apologize in advance about any inaccuracies in the historical elements of the fic. I did my very best at research, but I fear I may have made some mistakes.
> 
> Title from the song Coins In A Fountain by Passenger.

**1\. Roman Britain, 57 AD**

The bonfire and the dancing bodies around it provide just enough warmth to keep Crowley from sneaking away somewhere else, somewhere he can curl in on himself and sleep the season away. The mead may or may not be another thing keeping him here—he still hasn’t completely made up his mind about it.

He’s supposed to be working, tempting some young men into one thing or the other to lead their souls into Hell. Something along those lines, anyways. It’s never too different, is it. Normally, he’d be trying to finish the job as fast as possible, but he still feels that slight twist on his stomach from when he had to deal with Caligula sixteen years ago. He’d slept most of those, until Hell had sent Hastur to wake him up and give him his new assignment. So here he is, slightly drunk in the middle of an ocean of celebrating humans, trying to decide whether he should leave or get the job done.

He’s leaning towards the first option when a mop of familiar blond curls catches his attention from the other side of the bonfire. It takes some skill, to round the bonfire without crashing against every single person around, but he finally manages to reach the angel and wave at him.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” He asks, a smile playing on his lips. Aziraphale’s eyes widen a bit, and he looks around with an almost frantic set on his features before gesturing towards the edge of the forest, away from the fire and the celebration.

Crowley bites his bottom lip, tries not to think about the chill of the air as he moves away from the fire.

“Craw-Crowley,” Aziraphale says once they are both far away enough. “Sorry about this. You know how Heaven can get.”

Crowley nods. He remembers how Heaven used to be, can only imagine how they’ve gotten since the Fall.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a shrug and waves his fingers around to refill the jug of mead he’s been drinking of. “Care to share?”

Aziraphale smiles, nods and takes the jug from him. They stay there for hours, passing the jug along and sharing stories of their time on Earth. And, if the angel notices the way Crowley hugs his arms around himself to keep a small semblance of warmth, he says nothing about it.

** *****

**2\. Sicilia, 734 AD**

Crowley stands in front of a humble grave, a single bright flower in his hand, his eyes fixed on the worn tombstone. He’s been at this graveyard for the better part of an hour, leaving flowers on top of different graves; some of people he’s known before, some of people he’s sure won’t get any offerings. It still feels weird, this new tradition of leaving flowers and honoring in silence, but he’s found he doesn’t quite mind as much as he probably should, considering this is now a religious event.

The night air is cool, though not as cold as it would normally be most anywhere else in the continent. He likes that, likes being able to walk outside without having to endure that aching burn in his bones, likes not needing to stay holed up inside a house. He gets to see the night sky when it isn’t too cold, gets to watch the lull of the city at night, and he likes that as well, from time to time.

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts, making him jump slightly.

“Crowley. I didn’t think it was actually you,” Aziraphale says, voice barely more than a whisper as he quickly takes his hand away from his shoulder. It’s the first time Aziraphale has gotten his new name right the first time around and Crowley’s eyes do _not _water a little at that.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, no,” the angel is fast to say and doesn’t miss the way his eyes widen with something that almost looks like worry. “You couldn’t disappoint. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

Crowley very pointedly doesn’t think about possible meanings, hidden words. He just doesn’t.

“What brings you here, then?” He asks, for a lack of anything better to say.

“Same as you, I’d think.”

Crowley doesn’t think so, but he still nods a couple of times before setting the flower on top of the grave and turning towards the angel.

“I know this is supposed to be a time of somber reflection, or whatever, but I heard about this new tavern in town and was planning on giving it a try this evening, if you’d care to join me.”

The smile in Aziraphale’s face would probably blind him if he weren’t wearing his spectacles.

*******

**3\. London, 1328**

Aziraphale looks at him from the door of the house Crowley has just knocked on. His eyes shine with an emotion Crowley would be tempted to say is amusement if this was just about anyone else. A plate full of round cakes rest on one of his hands. Crowley feels himself shrink just a little bit inside the cape he's wearing tonight to keep the cold at bay while he wanders the streets.

“Why, my dear,” he says, “I didn’t think you’d have the need to go souling.”

“Well, you know, there’s less for those who really need it this way,” Crowley replies, and it’s such an obvious lie, he’s sure Aziraphale will call him out on it. “Just doing some proper demonic work on this fine night.”

Aziraphale fiddles with his cape for a moment before nodding.

“Of course, of course. I suppose I shouldn’t interfere. What with the Arrangement, and everything.”

“Yes, exactly,” Crowley replies and gives the angel his best evil smile. It’s not particularly evil, but knows Aziraphale will have the decency to not mention it.

“Well, looks like I’ve found myself unable to thwart your evil ways this time.” Aziraphale is doing his best to keep a smile from forming on his mouth as he hands the full plate of cakes over to him.

Crowley walks away and tries to pretend Aziraphale’s eyes aren’t glued to his back. Especially when he crouches next to the little girl curled on the corner’s floor and offers her a good part of the cakes.

*******

**4\. New England, 1645**

The night is as cold as should be expected this time of year. Not too far away, he can hear the voices of the people, chatting, getting ready to go to sleep. Sitting on the floor next to him, back against the same tree as himself, Aziraphale is looking at the stars, a soft smile on his lips that makes Crowley’s heart soar a little.

It’s been a while since they both been in the same place at the same time for more than a day, what with the Arrangement and everything. Sometimes—only sometimes—Crowley hates himself for proposing it.

“I heard about Shakespeare,” Crowley says, careful not to let his teeth chatter from the cold. Aziraphale’s lips form a thin line.

“I forget, sometimes, just how short human lives can be.” Crowley hums. It’s easy to forget mortality when it doesn’t affect you.

“It’s a pity we can’t have a celebration in his honor while we are here. It’s the right date for it, after all.” Crowley’s gaze drift towards the path to the houses behind them, thinks about how everyone must have already retired to their rooms with their families. Pilgrims don’t believe in honoring the dead during this time of year; don’t allow any celebrations to be held in their name. Aziraphale would probably never admit it, but Crowley knows he usually enjoys the Allhallowtide and must be having a hard time not doing anything right now.

“A pity indeed,” he replies with a sigh, finally dragging his gaze away from the sky. He sounds thoughtful, the way he so often does when he’s trying to decide whether to risk Heaven’s wrath. There’s a shift in the air, then, and the angel pulls a bottle of wine from the spot on his other side. “It’s not the same, but we can drink to his memory.”

“I won’t say no to a drink, angel, you know that.” Aziraphale’s face lights up with a smile, and he moves to sit closer to Crowley, so that there’s no space left between them before offering Crowley the bottle. He doesn’t say anything, but he can feel his cheeks warming up just a little at the contact.

*******

**+1. Tadfield, Two months after the apocalypse**

They’re in Anathema’s cottage, cups of warm cocoa on their hands while they wait for the Them to come back from trick-or-treating so they can all eat together. Aziraphale is sitting next to him, close, so close, his arms fluttering about as he tells some story or another. Crowley would like to say he’s been paying attention to the words around him, but he’d be lying. His brain has been in a constant state of short-circuit ever since Aziraphale took the spot next to him on the couch.

And it’s stupid, really, because it isn’t like the two of them have never been this close before. But it’s always been just them before when it happened, never around other people. And Crowley doesn’t want to blow this out of proportion, but it just feels _big_, important. Aziraphale has always been reserved in his affections, always fearful of repercussions and punishments, and though he’s been slowly letting himself relax when they are together, he’s always kept his distance when they are around others.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says next to his ear, making Crowley blink in surprise. “You are freezing. You should have said something sooner.”

Crowley blinks again, slowly, trying to figure out if the angel’s words are true. They are, of course. It says something about the state of his mind that he hadn’t noticed the chill coming in from the window before Aziraphale said something. The angel clicks his tongue at him and traps one of Crowley’s hands with both of his, the warmth of his fingers quickly traveling all the way up to Crowley’s face.

“Really, my dear, you must be careful. Would be awfully inconvenient if you were to discorporate because of a cold.”

“Awfully,” Crowley manages to croak after a second or two.

From the other couch, Anathema and Newt share a soft laugh. And truly, Crowley would be mad if Aziraphale’s fingers weren’t just so warm and soft and calming and… He doesn’t notice he’s smiling until Anathema sends a wink his way, but by then, he’s too far gone on the angel’s warmth to really care.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Warm On the Coldest Of Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231208) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)


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